Better Without Lyrics
by timenspace
Summary: While travelling the world in search of eliminating Moriarty's gang, Sherlock is strapped for cash. And there are some things that can only be expressed in music.


**Title: **Better Without Lyrics **  
>CharactersPairings: **Sherlock/John**  
>Fandom: <strong>Sherlock, BBC**  
>Warnings: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR 2.03<br>Rating: T, if you can't see why I'm sorry :P  
>Notes: <strong>BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are the owners of Sherlock, I make no profit from writing what happens in my head. Please listen to Mendelssohn Movement 1, The Violin Concerto - specifically one of the Chang's or of Izhak Perlman for desired effect.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>While travelling the world in search of Moriarty's gang, Sherlock gets strapped for cash.  
>Thanks to gatalovesyou for the inspiration to finish this :)<p>

Rome.

The Eternal City. Or so they claimed.

He would need some money before he continued with this. And possibly discover the rest of Moriarity's Network.

The network he had to eliminate before he could come back from the dead.

He saw the musicians, pitifully plucking at their instruments. The merchants selling their wares.

Quick money, then. Not boring either. He might get noticed.

Of course he hadn't played in _front of a group _since the recital senior year. The bloody stupid recital that they gave the solo to Tom Lange - that didn't even _deserve _the part.

The conductor had gotten quite infuriated when Sherlock chose to duel with his own violin. The thought of the chubby little man's face growing red as a beet while he waved his little pathetic stick and was mouthing "sit down!" to Sherlock still brought the same amusement.

He bought a cheap one with half of his notes in his pocket. One that looked a bit between well-loved and rejected. The vendor he chose the instrument from didn't seem to mind the pound notes he carried. He'd spent the Euros on the train. Nobody suspected a dark haired, bearded stranger with a strange Italian accent.

He would have preferred his old one from the flat - but this one would have to suffice.

Sherlock sat against the fountain, tuning the old thing for sometime. There was only one original string - the G string. The least commonly broken.

The instrument twanged willingly under his fingertips. This was why instruments were better than people. You could test them out first run and they always behaved the same way. If it had been anything else he might have called it boring. Instruments were never boring. One didn't have to play the same song on them all the time.

If one saw him sitting there, plucking the strings, they would be making the assumption that he would be playing a happy melody. He considered playing Bach, but that would be far too obvious. Besides, Sherlock felt turbulent, and moody - and the melody he chose would likely reflect that.

The tune would be difficult to play, but he'd practiced in their flat. He knew how to illusion the violin to sound like more than one.

He positioned the violin against his chin and shoulder. Testing the strings. They wanted to be played. He began the piece. Slowly and softly at first. A beat. The moody solo - it was angry, almost passionate. As though pleading for someone deaf to hear it. Defiant even.

There were people around, listening to the complexness. The passion of the violin. Passion was not exactly love to Sherlock, it was a strong composition of jumbled emotions. But the violin was the champion of instruments to make love to.

By now there were people watching him play. A tourist took a photo of him, perched on the fountain, urging the strings to play their music.

The crescendo rose and fell, rose and fell. The piece slowed, a couple danced as though they would be back in their hotel, tearing each other's clothes off when this was finished.

The only thing that really mattered is that they were dropping money in his violin case. Pound notes, Euros, Dollars, various change, Rupees - which weren't worth much but at least it was money.

The violin continued, sad and melancholy...the loneliness that could only be expressed in its strings. At least they were stupid enough to appreciate the beauty of the piece, and did not consider the raging emotions that went with it. That's why music was better without lyrics. It didn't bias the listener to what the composer might be feeling.

The confusion, he played faster and faster until finally the piece began to reach it's final notes. Slower, the passion again, different passion - a raging fast angry sort of passion.

The violin held the final notes, slowly again. And he drew the bow across the strings with a flourish, finishing the last note.

There was instant applause. More money thrown into the case. He smiled. He did like the attention and approval yes, but the point was - he didn't feel that nagging feeling in his mind anymore. Besides, now he had enough for the rest of the remedy to forget what he was feeling.

His conscience nagging at him that he would be sorry he hadn't told John, even if it was for the best.


End file.
